Hands
by feltknickers
Summary: One-shot response to a Tumblr prompt: "(may be a bit angsty, sorry). How about when Jane told Maura about what happened to her hands. And how come Maura is the only one who can touch them... #rizzles"
Hands on the steering wheel, Jane took a deep, steadying breath. Her fingers found the grooves and pressed, testing her grip, one finger at a time, then all at once. She had passed her physical exam by lying about the lingering pain but her strength and flexibility were back. The tremor was gone. Sometimes dexterity was an issue, but not on the day she passed her physical. And the psych exam was a breeze. "No, doctor, I haven't had trouble sleeping. To be honest, I'm bored at home. I'm anxious to get back to work." It wasn't a complete lie.

She'd met her new partner, Detective Frost, the day before. Cute kid. Earnest. He had an air of formality, like he'd served in the military before joining the force. She could tell at once that he would be someone she could trust, even if he was wet behind the ears. She'd teach him about homicide investigation. Maybe they'd even be friends, if she could get him to crack a smile.

There would be a new medical examiner too. A woman. Jane hadn't met this one, just heard about her from the guys in the bullpen. "Don't be fooled by her looks, Rizzoli," Crowe had warned. "She's a stuck-up bitch. Queen of the dead." Jane knew not to take his evaluation too seriously. He was probably just butthurt that she didn't kneel down and suck his dick on command.

New partner, new medical examiner, new case. Not half past four that morning, Jane had been called to an alley near Fenway. The police tape was up but the sun was not. It was going to be a long day. Jane took another deep breath, peeled her fingers from the steering wheel, flexing them, and made fists while she walked toward the uniformed officer at the tape.

"Victor eight two five. Detective Jane Rizzoli." She flashed her badge quickly, just long enough for the rookie cop to confirm the numbers. Not long enough for him to connect her name to the stories. She had ducked under the tape and walked away long before he could try to sneak a glimpse at her hands.

Frost met her on the way in. "Victim is a 23-year-old male, Jason Hodge, from Brookline. We think. CSI found a wallet nearby, cards, but no cash."

"We _think_? Something wrong with the picture?"

"No, the face." Frost grimaced. "Beaten. Badly."

Jane nodded. "What else?"

"Proprietor of…" he checked his notepad, "Pavement Coffeehouse found the body this morning when he opened. Called it in. I figure the kid was probably out drinking after the game last night, got in a fight with some fans, but the M.E. won't give me a time of death."

"Hmm," Jane grunted. Frost was trying, but too much speculation would get him into trouble. "Don't jump to conclusions. We don't know when or how he died until the M.E. tells us. We don't even know if he was killed here." At that moment, they turned a corner onto the crime scene.

The alley had been trashed. Garbage bins overturned, their contents spilling, the stench of old food mixed with body fluids. Debris everywhere. Clearly a murder scene. In the middle of it all was the victim, face swollen and bloated, the remnants of his pinstriped baseball jersey stained with blood and vomit. And bent over him was a blonde woman in bright red pumps and a dress.

A dress. Not even five a.m. and she was dressed for Sunday brunch. She squatted demurely, her knees held tightly together and her skirt riding up to expose them. A tailored jacket fell around her hips and her hair, the color of sunlight, tumbled over her shoulders. Jane glanced at Detective Frost as if to say, "Is she for real?" but he just smiled dubiously and approached the doctor.

She was focused on her watch and the thermometer in the guy's liver, but soon put them away and made a note, then stood to greet the detectives. A bright smile and perfectly understated makeup. (Jane wore neither.) "You must be Detective Rizzoli. I'm Doctor Maura Isles; it's a pleasure to meet you." She held out her hand to shake, but before giving Jane a chance to reject it, she took it back. "Oh, excuse me. My gloves."

Still puzzled by the picture before her, Jane maintained eye contact longer than was probably polite, and only looked away when Frost spoke. "So, uh, you got a time of death there, Doc?"

"Within the last 12 hours," she replied unhelpfully. "I'll know more once I get him back to the morgue."

* * *

Doctor Isles invited them to the autopsy, or more accurately, she coerced them into attending the autopsy. "Or you could wait for my report later this afternoon," she smiled.

Detective Frost tried to bargain his way out of it, offering to canvas the area, run down known contacts, pull the victim's phone and financials, but Jane was a hard ass. If she had to be there, she insisted, so did he. As soon as the elevator doors opened on the morgue floor, he turned green. He took three wobbly steps into the hallway before Jane turned him around and shoved him into the elevator, pressing the button to bring him back to the world of the living. Frost wasn't as tough as he looked.

In the autopsy suite, Isles gave her a smock and goggles, then pointed her to a shelf with a selection of rubber gloves. "Try the mediums. Are you allergic to latex?"

"What?"

"The purple ones are nitrile."

Jane grabbed some and pulled them on. She stood there in smock, goggles, and gloves, feet spread, hands clasped behind her back, wondering if this was some sort of reverse hazing by the M.E.: humiliate the detective to ingratiate yourself.

If so, it was working. Jane had nothing else to do but watch the doctor go about her business and the more she watched, the more she wanted to. Isles was in her element here. Every move she made was careful, deliberate. Methodical, but not rote. It was like watching a master weaver at her loom or a jazz musician play her instrument. Jane was captivated.

Isles began by assessing the external appearance of the deceased. She took thousands of photographs, noting stains and marks on his clothing, bruises and cuts on his skin. Gently lifting his right hand, she turned it over and pressed on his fingertips. She used a fingerprint scanner on each pad and scraped under his nails, depositing the residue in small plastic tubes. She gently palpated his fingers and palm with her thumb, her fingers on the back of his hand. Two of his fingers curled.

She turned the hand over, visually examining his knuckles as she repeated the motion. There was something in her eyes. A focus on something distant, something that wasn't the hand directly in front of her. It lasted only a moment and then she gently released it, palm down on the slab.

Pulling over a big piece of equipment, she flipped a switch and the attached monitor showed an X-ray of the hand. She used a pen to point. "Fracture of the fifth metacarpal."

Jane leaned in to see. (Isles smelled of fancy perfume.) Sure enough, there was a small gap in the bone. "Huh." She turned her head, expecting to see the doctor still peering at the X-ray, but instead she was looking at Jane. Jane quickly looked again at the screen, embarrassed and not sure why. She tried to cover with humor. "Is that cause of death?"

Isles pressed some buttons on the keyboard, then shut off the machine. She was completely serious when she answered, "No, a fracture of the hand is not fatal."

Jane laughed, "No kidding."

"No."

Jane stopped laughing.

Isles took some more pictures of the hand.

"So, what then? Why is that important?"

"The fracture is in the base of the fifth metacarpal, at the metacarpal-hamate articulation."

Jane blinked. "English, please?"

"It's a classic fistfight injury. Your victim threw a punch. And his knuckles show no signs of laceration, so whatever he hit was smooth, but hard."

"Like a jaw," Jane supplied.

"There are many possibilities," Isles replied. "I don't like to jump to conclusions."

* * *

Jane lost it when Isles picked up the scalpel. She held it the way you're supposed to, with an index finger behind the blade. She was careful and safe, but the moment it pierced the skin and no blood came out, Jane's ears grew hot. She was breathing hard and she could see nothing but the blade, cleanly slicing across the bruises of the dead man's chest. The light grew brighter, blinding. She squinted. She could feel the scalpel piercing her palms, puncturing her skin, penetrating the back of her hand from the inside out, pinning her down, keeping her in place, unable to move, unable to fight back, unable to do anything but whimper and turn her head away from the stench of hot breath….

"Detective? Do you need to sit down?"

Her eyes were closed and her fists were clenched and the words were fuzzy, as if coming from another room.

"Detective Rizzoli?"

She swallowed hard, fighting back tears.

"Jane. Open your eyes. Now. Breathe."

The first thing she saw was her shoes. Then the smock. Purple gloves on her hands, still balled into fists, her fingernails digging through the thin rubber. Nitrile. Embarrassed, she quickly grabbed at the neck of the smock, pulling it off, along with the gloves and the goggles. She crumpled everything into a ball and slammed it on the empty slab, pushing open the door and letting it swing behind her on purpose, hoping Dr. Isles wouldn't follow.

She did. She found Jane in the stairwell, forehead against the cool painted cinder block, still trying to compose herself. Jane turned when Dr. Isles spoke, bringing her fully back to the present.

"Detective Rizzoli, I…" Isles had removed her protective gear and was in simple black scrubs and sneakers. No gloves, no dress, no heels. She looked supremely uncomfortable. "Individuals new to the autopsy suite often become nauseated; some experience a vasovagal response." She sounded like she was quoting a textbook. "Those individuals must be allowed to endure and experience their discomfort and return to the practice when recovered." She fiddled with her fingers and glanced up, making brief eye contact. "You're very beautiful."

"What?"

"Excuse me." She shook her head and plastered her hands to her sides. "I meant to say—to encourage you to return to the autopsy suite when you've recovered from your nausea."

"It's not nausea." Jane crossed her arms. She liked having the upper hand. She liked being tall. She liked being in control.

"I didn't intend to make you uncomfortable." Isles was avoiding her eyes, looking at her collar.

Jane took a step forward. It had been months since she'd had a proper interrogation. It was like riding a bicycle. Or sex. "Why did you say that?"

Isles didn't step back. Her eyes stayed fixed on Jane's neck. "I can be insensitive. I've been told that."

"You said I was beautiful." Her voice was low, soft. She was surprised to realize she was flirting.

"Please forgive me."

"You're so…" Jane let out an amused breath. She could see why Crowe had said what he did. Men become assholes when a woman confuses them. Jane, on the other hand… "You look one way and act like…" But there was a tenderness to this queen of the dead. Jane dipped her head, trying to find the doctor's eyes. "And then…" She found them, wide open.

"I should go." Isles fumbled behind her for the door handle.

Jane reached around her, gently holding the door closed. "It wasn't you."

She blinked. "What?"

There was a warmth radiating in the small space between them. She smelled of fancy perfume. The way her jacket fell around her hips as she bent over the body. "Can we…." Jane's gaze fell from eyes to lips and she forgot to finish the sentence.

"You are," Maura whispered.

"Uncomfortable?"

"Beautiful."

Now she could laugh for real. She moved her hand from the door, brushing the doctor on the way back to her own pocket. The other hand found its way to her face, the heel pressing against her brow. It rubbed until she saw where the other woman's eyes had landed.

She slowly brought it between them, offering it out for inspection. "Go ahead." She turned it over, palm up, showing the other side of the scar.

The doctor's touch was gentle, feather-light and warm.

Jane flexed and wiggled her fingers. "Still works." She pulled the other from her pocket and repeated the action. "Both of 'em."

Maura held each of Jane's hands in her palms as if they were baby bunnies. Secure, but not firm. "Are you in pain?"

"Not right now."

Maura looked up at her questioningly.

"Not anymore."


End file.
